A Monarch No Better
by Jacktastic99
Summary: "I will stay by your side. Until this frail hope shatters." Based on the main story of Dark Souls 2, starting from the very beginning. Hope you enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

_A Monarch No Better_

_The Man of White_

There was once a man of white.

White hair. White eyes. White disposition. White soul. A sword master from the the sands, a mentor and a father. A man of kindness. A man of pride. He was a serious, honest man. Wise in many ways, naive in others. Some saw him as a guide. Others saw him as a fool.

No one could deny he was a man of white.

The curse of want visited him like all others. Like the sands he knew, his memories twisted and turned in time, until memories were formless, thoughts erased as soon as they arrived. And he tasted his first death.

Like all others, he roamed, hollowed beyond recognition. Until he was finally drawn to the gate of a kingdom. An ancient land, one long since forgotten. One where souls ran rampant. A kingdom of masks and dragons. Still he was a man of white. Gray hair, gray eyes, white disposition. White soul.

Until he met a woman of black. A herald of Drangleic.

She clothed herself in brilliant emerald, a guide to those like the man of white. Why she shepherded the undead, no one knew. Her dedication was inhuman, unearned, yet life saving. A soul of black, yet a white disposition.

She had seen every pawn fall, every possible monarch hollow. Each time, her soul had grown blacker, her view perpetually downcast. Some she had grown to care for. Whether they were ignorant, wise, brave, cowardly, rich, poor, white soul, black soul, they had all hollowed. An inevitability, one of a cursed, unfair world.

The man of white found solace in her advice, in her direction. She confused him, never explained her intentions. Yet he trusted her anyways, let her aid him. A skilled swordsman, a savant of two swords, he steadily slew hollow after hollow, demon after demon. The woman of black took notice, began to hope. She never let that hope run free, however. It would only end in pain. He died like all others. He would hollow like all others

Yet as he slew the Old Iron King, as his soul grew with the 4th great soul, he was still a man of white. Grey hair, grey eyes, white disposition, white soul. And her hope rose.

The man of white, weary and tired, now stood before the monument to old, forgotten Drangleic. A black, imposing castle, magnificent and sturdy. Rain covered the stones, dragging millions of trails as drops dripped along it's walls. The woman of black stood beside him, her gaze turned towards the castle.

_"You have arrived, done what no other undead has done,"_ she said, a note of nostalgia in her voice.

_"And what have I done, Herald?. " _He responded, his armor drenched with rain. His face was dark, serious. The castle had an aura of dark, the black of the stones reaching for him, drawing him in. The ring, the curse, ached on his shoulder.

She didn't respond at first. Simply stared out. Until finally, she turned to him and said, "_The King waits for you, Avezrix. A soul such as yours will suffice."_

_"Don't make any promises."_

The woman of black sighed, clasping her hands behind her back and returning her gaze to the castle. She said, "_You and the king are not so different. He was a proud man, one of honor, one of kindness. A white soul. A monarch who could carry the weight of his kingdom." _She paused before continuing. "_But a monarch's soul grows darker in time. To carry the peoples' hopes, their beliefs, a monarch must do depraved things. To save what truly matters."_

_"And what truly mattered to him?"_ The man of white wiped his brow, cold sweat mixing with the rain.

_"I do not know. But everything you have seen, every tragedy, all of the fallen, was the king's doing. All to save what he loved the most. To stop the curse, his soul grew dark. Until the soul of white was there no longer."_

The man of white shook his head. "_And does that mean that I am to take his place? Until my soul grows dark as well? Is that all there is?" _He turned to her. "_I'm afraid of what I'll find in that castle. I don't see an end to this. Most of all, I don't know what must be done.__  
><em>

The woman of black turned to him as well, holding his gaze. An eternity passed between the two, the man of white full of fire, the woman of black like stone. When she next spoke, it was filled with hope.

_"You are to bring an end to your journey, Avezrix. As well as mine."_

She turned back to the castle, her words spent. The man of white knew she was finished, that she had spoken enough. Drawing his two swords, he started up the bridge, towards the massive doors of Drangleic castle. He stopped in his tracks. He could feel her gaze on him.

_"Every Monarch grows tired of carrying the weight of their souls." _he shouted.

He couldn't help but smile. "_So be it__."_ The last words were a whisper to himself. Perhaps a promise. Perhaps a sad observation. Only he knew.

His mind turned back to Drangleic. Once a kingdom of salvation, now a kingdom of the damned. It's king, once noble, brought down to do hellish things. All to save what mattered most.

The man walked the bridge towards the monument to old, forgotten Drangleic. He had been a man of kindness. A man of pride. A serious, honest man. A swordsman. A man of white. White hair, white eyes, white disposition. White soul.

The man walking the bridge was no longer white. He was a man of hardship. A man of fatigue. A dark, crestfallen man. Weary of the world.

He was a Man of Grey. Grey hair, grey eyes, grey disposition.

A grey soul.


	2. Chapter 2

_A Monarch No Better_

_Hatred of a Monarch_

There was once a man of grey.

Grey hair, grey eyes, grey disposition. Grey soul. A master swordsman of a home long forgotten, a slayer of those whose names cannot be spoken nor remembered. A tired, weary man. One plagued with fatigue. Crushed under the weight of a Monarch's fate.

All knew that he was a man of grey.

Broken and crestfallen, he fought through the monument to old, forgotten Drangleic, through soldiers infected with madness, through soldiers infected with loyalty. Still he was a man of grey. Grey hair, grey eyes, grey disposition. Grey soul. Until he came upon a being of black.

A charmer, a beauty to the lost Monarch. Sophisticated, soothing, confusing. This one's soul of black had long since infected the rest of it, leaving behind a monster in the guise of a woman.

The man of grey, aware of the being's dark presence, listened to it, took its advice and sifted through what he could use and what would end him. He could feel the dark covering his skin in her presence.

He still felt it when he left her view.

Through the soldiers with wills of stone, through the otherworldly knight of storm he carved, accruing more souls, growing more and more tired. He found his head nodding in the midst of battle, eyelids falling in the most chaotic of moments. His only reprieve were his mistakes. A 4-foot long sword impaled through his forehead. His heart stopping from the lightning. Being cleaved in half. Death brought moments of rest, before being wrenched back into life, waking in the serene light of the bonfire. He had to prepare himself to rise from it.

Still he was a man of grey. Grey hair, grey eyes, grey disposition. Grey soul.

Through the Shrine to a deity unknown, populated with an expedition which had long since deteriorated, he fought, his blades of black steel nicked in dozens of places. One snapped against an abomination, with bonded skin and breath of dark. He almost didn't notice. And when he did, he cared very little.

Still he was a man of grey. Grey hair, grey eyes, grey disposition. Grey soul.

Through the crypt, bodies lying in infuriating, enviable rest, he fought harder than he ever had before. The dark was comforting here, all encompassing, never-ending. His body refused to rest. The man of grey fell into a frenzied state, throwing himself at the lost and the undead with an undecipherable determination, his eyes stained open, his body twitching in it's maddening unrest. His skin rotted, his eyes turned darker with each death. He became careless, falling into an instinctual rage in battle. Every death was coveted. Every revival despised. He was still, hardly, a man of grey. Grey hair, black eyes, grey disposition. Grey soul.

And after countless deaths, after dragging hours sitting at Majula, after blood, ashes, souls, and far too many masks, he found his goal. A monarch. A sovereign ruler, magnificent crown perched atop his white hair. A great, beautiful sword in hand.

And a soul of nothingness.

A hollow soul.

In a haze, the man of grey's body moved forward, took the filthy gold ring from the pile of clothes on the ground. His body made his eyes stare at the ring. His body slipped his finger through the ring. His body made his hand tighten around his blade. And when he felt the woman of black's gaze on his back, when his mind coalesced with his body, his soul went black as night.

_"This is it? I fought just to find a damned husk!?" _His soul struck his blade out at the hollow, barely piecing the rotting skin, decayed skin. "_Did you know?" _The woman of black held her gaze, her clasped hands shaking. She kept a stony look on her face, but she didn't answer. "_YOU KNEW!"_

His vision spiraled into a blur, hearing his own voice ringing throughout the chamber, feeling the impact of his blade hacking repeatedly at the hollow's leg. He had no control over himself, he couldn't stop. His assault did nothing to the hollow. It didn't even acknowledge him.

_"I came so many miles, died so many times, just to find a husk? This is it? That's it!?"_ He could feel his blade bending as he kept hacking at the hollow's leg, barely making a cut.

_"You wouldn't search if you knew what became of Vendrick. You had to see for yourself what becomes of a monarch."_ Her voice was soft, yet it carried throughout the chamber. Her hands kept shaking.

_[Every monarch grows tired of carrying the weight of their souls]. _The man felt his blade snap, the steel lodged in the hollow's leg. It kept walking aimlessly. The man of black crumbled to his knees, drenched with sweat, tears running down his cheeks. He stayed like that until the rage drained from his limbs, until fatigue nearly took him. Those words rang throughout his mind, never ending, relentless. He hadn't believed it at the time. He'd convinced himself that he had, but hope had resided deep within him. To be shattered at the feet of a hollow.

_"This is what becomes of a monarch?" _The cold of the ring spread through his veins, alien, almost hateful.

The hollow had risked everything to save a ring. A plain, simple ring. He gave up everything, his mind, his kingdom, his life. His own soul.

The man of black would be no different. The next monarch, the next ruler, to be seated atop a throne. Until he too wasted away. And sacrificed everything. All... for what mattered most.

..._ So be it._

As he rose to his feet, he dropped the shattered sword, it landing softly on the floor. His entire body was weighted, slow, moved through the surreal world. He continued past the woman, more tears streaming down his face. The ring encumbered him, fed his black soul. And he continued down the path back to the crypt.

Outside the crypt, he continued, crestfallen and destroyed. He continued, a soul of black, defenseless. He continued, hope pushing him onward.

He would continue until this frail hope withered away.

* * *

><p>There was once a woman of black.<p>

Brown hair. Brown eyes. White disposition. Black soul. A guide to the lost undead, radiating brilliant emerald. A thoughtful, saddened woman, one who had known only the curse her entire life. She had no choice but to help every pawn. Every possible monarch. And when each one's soul wasted away, her soul had grown blacker, her view perpetually downcast. In time, she felt empty. Nearly lost to everything. Hollow.

Until she met a man of white.

He was a kind, serious man. A savant of two swords, from a distant land. A man of peculiar color, shining white hair, white eyes. He trusted her, followed her guidance. This one returned often, a weak soul growing more and more each time he returned to the far fire.

Through the four great beings she aided him. Through the monument to old, forgotten Drangleic she aided him. To the shell of a king she aided him. And all that time, she felt him withering away.

Death reached him often, fatigue morphing the kind, serious man. Through the monument he decayed, becoming quiet, thoughtful, instinctive. He had long since stopped smiling.

And at the soul of nothingness, at the great hollow, at the tomb of a great king, he saw him crack. The dark crushed him, wearing the ring of the king with regret. Shame.

The woman watched the man of black, crestfallen and destroyed, hold the ring. Hope flowed through her, mixed with pain for the man she had grown to care for. This world had brought the man of white into the abyss. And the soul of white was no more.

The woman had once had a black soul. thoughtful, saddened. A guide to the undead. One who had only known the curse her entire life.

She was no longer a woman of black. He had brought hope to her, persevered, succeeded where thousands of others had failed. And he had been crushed by the fate of a monarch.

She was no longer a woman of black.

Through him, her soul had become a tormented grey.


	3. Chapter 3

_A Monarch No Better_

_Understanding_

She was there again. Staring out through the Aerie, that same wistful look in her eyes. Sighing and shaking his head, Vez walked up next to her, staring out among the Aerie as well. She said nothing, just kept looking out, her hands clasped.

Vez, despite all his willpower, couldn't observe the Aerie that spread out before him. Her presence was paramount. She was impossible to ignore, until she let you ignore her. So, unlike every other time, he talked first.

"You follow every Monarch. Every pawn. Every fool who walks this doomed path. And I still don't know why."

...Nothing. She didn't reply, didn't even acknowledge his words. She just kept staring out, a look of longing for something Vez didn't understand. Nothing about the Emerald Herald was understandable. You just accepted it.

Clenching his fist until his knuckles popped, Vez began the path down to the Aerie, saying, "Don't be surprised when this pawn hollows like all the rest."

"You're no pawn."

Vez froze, surprise etched on his face. Turning back to look at her, she no longer had that wistful look, but a look of determination. Her eyes spoke of a purpose, a purpose Vez had not known of before.

"There is nothing about you that speaks of a pawn. You're weary, yet your spirit stays hardened. You're strength grows with every soul, yet you still think you're not built for a monarch yet. Your body has failed you before, but you never slow down, never rest. Unlike all others, you are no pawn. You never were."

Unclasping her hands, the Herald began down the path towards him. His armor felt heavier, the dust swirling around the Aerie suffocating. The ring tore at him. The unfamiliar sword hung at his waist, off-putting. Her steps were light, yet they never faltered, her eyes never leaving his.

She stood before him, she being a head shorter than him but her presence making her seem larger, more powerful.

"Avezrix, you have something no other undead has. Something that drives your soul to survive, to escape this place."

Vez chuckled lightly, shaking his head again. "Every undead has a cause, Herald. I'm no different."

"Wrong." She stepped closer to him, her brown eyes serious yet filled with fire. "You have a reason. Any undead can make a cause. A cause doesn't look to the past, it keeps you running towards the future. But you have a reason."

His armor felt heavier still.

"A reason keeps you dedicated. Something you're obliged to fulfill, even if it means agony. Even if it means monotony. Even if it means death. Something you plan on returning to. You place your faith, your soul, in the hands of another. And they keep you going."

She gripped his wrist, opening his hand and dropping something in. She closed her other hand around his fingers, gripping tightly.

"And that is what I don't know. Your reason. It defines you, yet I still don't understand. When you first approached me on the cliff, I felt it. I didn't know what it was, but you were not another pawn. And that has kept me by your side."

Until this frail hope has withered.

She unclasped her hands from his, before turning back and walking up the path. Vez watched her, until she dissapeared over the edge, back towards the lift to Aldia Manor. Vez opened his hand, staring at the item she had given him.

It was a feather. It looked ancient, fragile in a way. Yet it gave off a sense of home. A form of comfort. Just like a bonfire.

He turned back back to the Aerie, gripping the feather. She was right, he thought. He did have a reason. He drew his sword before starting down the path.

His sword stayed upright, his armor light. The ring was bearable. The feather was the greatest burden of all.


	4. Chapter 4

_A Monarch No Better_

_Humanity_

There was once a being of grey.

Ancient, wise, unimaginably powerful. A beast of legend, one that many men had worshipped and revered. A beast of the clouds, great black wings blotting out the sun. A beast of fire.

It encompassed all that was lost and remembered.

Since the days of humanity's birth, it had been seen as a god, a magnificent shrine built for it in the highest peaks of the earth. The golden glow of the shrine illuminated the Aerie that it dominated, dozens of the descendants hovering over the shrine, their nests surrounding it. None ever dared make their home at the shrine, lest they be mauled by the guardians.

On this day of gold, the sun hovering over the horizon, the being of grey felt the presence of another of the lost. Another trying to reach the being. Armed. A second skin of black armor. A single sword, held with an unexperienced grip. Anger. Regret.

Radiating the dark.

This one was smarter than most. Strong, fast, quite reckless. Its presence never completely left the shrine, even in death. This one would be brought back at the entrance, an unbreaking vessel of rebirth.

Slowly, painfully, the lost one broke through the guardians, severed their tendons, rended their veins. Covered in their blood. The ascended fell to his blade, their corpses tumbling down the grand staircase. Until finally, the lost stood before the being of grey, tired, slow, and wary.

_Memoryfailshim. Heislostinhisownsoulwhatshouldbecomeofhim? Maddeterminedcaringonceuponatime. Hollowedstillhashismindfightingtowardsagoaldoesn'tcarewhohecarvesthroughtogettheir. Bathedindarkthequeenneedshimwithouthimsheislostaswell. Crushed. Crushedundertheweightofwhatitmeanstobeamonarch._

_A soul of black._

The being of grey, glaring down at the lost, felt his experiences. Blood. Agony. Relying on a promise, a reason to continue.

A white disposition.

_Heisreadyhehascomefarhehasearnedthishemightnotssucceedthatisnotourplacetodecide._

**Lost undead. You, like others before, stand before us. Time wavers, the mist beckoning. **

**Hollowed beyond repair, you will stand before a throne befitting a Great Sovereign. What is seen, falls to your eyes alone. **

**What is decided, you will never know.**

The lost stood tall, unwavering against the message, the gift of the being. One might have mistaken his lack of a reaction as defiance. This one was far too tired to act defiant.

**Go, cursed undead. Fight until the world, or you, crumbles.**

* * *

><p>There was once a man of steel.<p>

Brown hair, blue eyes, white disposition. A will of steel. A soldier, a captain of the lost army of Drangleic. Proud, unrelenting, intelligent. A strategist, a fighter, a leader, a mentor.

Born of a line of unbreakable soldiers, carrying the legacy of the Drummond family on his back. Thousands of men had fallen to his blade, thousands who would threaten his homeland.

He now lay tired, slowed and bleeding, breath ragged and burning. Monsters, great beings of stone, unnatural things from far to the north crashed around him, rarely dead. Greater than any man, 10 feet tall, with impenetrable skin and hearts of rage.

None shone rage with an absolute radiance like the one standing at the end of the ramparts. Greater than any other, a tower of a creature. A stone blade, as large as the lesser giants around it, gripped in its hand, a weapon of decimation. A crown perched atop its head, shining in the dying sunlight of the day.

The man of steel, straining with the effort, rose to his feet, his sword perched on his shoulder. Soldiers died around him, torn in half, crushed underneath the beings' crude weapons, burned by the fire of their own archers. Blood ran in pools along the battlements, soaking the man of steel. The metallic smell was undeniable, all-encompassing. Bile rose in his throat.

The great lord of stone saw him rise, raised its sword. Every step it took towards the man of steel shook the earth, its massive frame blotting out the sun. The man of steel didn't expect to win. He expected to die standing on his feet.

Until there came a man of black.

The newcomer stood next to the man of steel, unscathed from the slaughter around him, a sword radiating warmth held in his hands. A man of peculiar color, white hair, white eyes. He couldn't have seemed more tired.

The man of black raised his blade and ran towards the lord of stone, unhampered by the lesser beings. The lord of stone saw him, raised its sword above its head, and brought it down onto the battlement. Dust flew into the sky as the weapon crashed down. The man of black disappeared among the dust.

The lord of stone crumbled to its knees suddenly, its bellow of agony resonating throughout the air around them. An otherworldy sound, one that filled the man of steel's chest with relief. It tried rising to its feet, before collapsing back onto one knee. The man of steel took a breath, before sprinting towards the downed lord. The cloud of dust fast approached him, until it surrounded him, stinging his eyes. He saw the massive outline of it's being, before lifting his blade above his head and bringing it down onto the lord's leg. The blade pierced the stone skin, digging into its thigh. He saw its hand out of the corner of his eye, coming down to crush him. Its hand stopped suddenly, as it let out another roar of pain. The man of steel looked up into the lord's face, silhouetted by the evening sun.

The man of black stood on the lord's shoulder, his blade dug into its skin, giving him a handhold. Gripping its crown, he wrenched his sword out of its shoulder before driving it into the head of the lord.

The lord of stone froze, the air around it calm and tranquil. Out of the head wound spouted a geyser of black liquid, soaking the men of black and steel. Its sword slipped from its grasp, before crashing to the ground.

The lord began to tip over, the black geyser still spraying. The man of steel ran out from under it, before being knocked off his feet as it crashed onto the rampart, sending a shockwave across the battlements.

When the dust around it cleared, the man of black stood at its head, his sword in his hand and dripping black blood. His other hand clutched something, something that shined in the light. A red jewel, taken from the crown of the lord.

The man of black walked towards the edge of the ramparts, his sword dragging along the ground, too tired to sheath it. The man of steel, crying tears of triumph, picked himself up, before seeing something else in the clutched hand of the man. A feather.

The man of black brought his closed hand close to his chest, before lifting it above his head. And as soon as he did that, rays of sunlight filtering through the feather, the world fell to pieces. The man of steel, the lord's corpse, the war around them, all faded away. Until nothing remained, nothing but the last memory of a raging, stone being.

* * *

><p>There was once a man broken by his soul of nothingness.<p>

On the peninsula, once a breathtaking settlement, he sat along the monument on the cliffs, looking away from the sun, hiding himself from it. Crestfallen, hollowed, broken, the warmth of the sun felt unearned, the luster of its light a lie. So he looked away. He always looked away.

The slight pressure in his ears made him look up, towards the bonfire. The man of black stood over it, the woman of tormented grey standing away from him, staring towards the fort, his blade dripping a black liquid, a red gem in his hand shining next to the fire. Looking at the gem, the man of nothingness caught a faint smell of the earth, dirt, grass, trees. Flowers.

The man of black walked towards the man of nothingness, sheathing his sword. Reaching the monument, he looked out at the sea, to the sun. And without moving, he spoke.

"_Saulden…. What is our true curse?"_

Neither spoke, both listening to the waves that crashed below them, the air of desolation that crept behind them, the hate of the ring on the man of black's finger. The man of nothingness stared at the bonfire, seeing dancing wishes in the flame. Old promises. Old reasons. Perhaps the man he had once been.

The man of nothingness sighed, before smiling ruefully.

"_Our humanity."_


	5. Chapter 5

_A Monarch No Better_

_To Deny The Abyss_

In pain, many beings have risen through time. A lord of fire, torn back to the earth by fate, by the unbreakable chains of inevitability. A witch of flame, who sought to keep alive an age of warmth, descending upon chaos to achieve her goal. And failing, in the end. The first of the dead, forced to bring down an unimaginably cruel curse to humanity, all in the sake of upholding a cycle even the gods were bound to. These beings of white, grey, and black died to an old saint, a legend of grey. A warrior, body covered in scars, hair dark as night, his voice filled with grit and agony. Black hair, brown eyes, white disposition. Grey soul.

In pain, a cycle was reborn. These beings, the saint, the shackles of fate, were reattached, the actors of the show switched out for the same concept, the same end. Decay.

And so, torn between the cycle that cannot be denied, there was once a man of black, standing before a throne befitting a Great Sovereign.

A sword master, a father and a mentor, hollowed beyond recognition. Pain coursing through his body. Fatigue filling every pore. Body covered in scars. Hair white as snow, his voice weak and pulsing with authority befitting an old ruler. An old, lost king, torn by his soul of black. A monarch no better than all those that came before, and ready to hold the shackles of fate. If it would keep those he loved free. If his reason lived on.

The old, never-resting guards of the throne had fallen to the man of black, wounding him, tiring him. The red jewel shined in his hand, ready to accept him as king. The hatred of the ring coursed through the veins of the man, ready to place him upon the covetous throne. To fulfill his reason.

Until there came a being of black.

The dark soaked his skin, suffocating him, robbing the strength from his legs. He fell to his knees, keeping himself up with his blade. The jewel slipped from his grip, his hands shriveling, his skin rotting.

_Curse. Unbreakable curse._

Feeling his limbs fail, he turned his head towards the wave of dark, the unbreakable wave. And standing at the head of that wave, stood a monster.

A mask, a steel mask of a skull. A dress of bones, of the lost, of the cursed. And a scythe, a weapon that shouldn't exist. A weapon of pure black.

It towered over the man of black, arms long and unnatural. It grabbed the jewel, holding it up to the mask. That sickening scythe hovering over him, holding him down.

Through the dark, the man forced his mouth to move.

"_You."_

The being lowered the jewel from it's sight, positioning the blade of the scythe over the man.

_"We both know that this is what must happen. I bear no ill will. You did your job well. Know that, as you fall to the dark."_

The man of black felt the scythe rise, bearing down on him from far above, before it shrieked towards him, the screech cutting through his mind. Cutting through his will.

And making the man rise to his feet, unable to stop himself from smiling.

The man of black stood and stepped towards the being of black, the dark falling off him, hiding from his agony, his rage. The scythe landed in the ground behind him, overshot, it's aim unable to be adjusted. Gripping his blade, the man grabbed the wrist of the monster's, before arcing his sword through it's arm.

The arm severed cleanly, the monster staring in bewilderment at its lost limb. And as it tried to understand what had happened, the man grabbed the handle of the scythe and brought it into the monster's neck with all his strength, all his exhaustion. With his last ache of rage.

Black blood cascaded down its side, gripping at its neck with its last remaining arm, the gem still grasped in it hand. The jewel fell from it's hands, into the pool of blood that gathered under it. And as the man watched the being fall, as he watched it's form wither, decay, his hatred fell away. His exhaustion, his regret, filled his soul, and ended the man that had once been a father, a mentor, a kind, serious man.

Gifted him with a soul of nothingness.

A hollow soul.

His sword fell to the ground, him reaching down and grabbing the jewel. Its fiery aura washed over him, the smell of the earth. Dirt, grass, trees. Flowers. Blood.

He sensed her before he saw her. And he spoke.

_"I don't mind. Not anymore."_

The woman of tormented grey stood at his side, helping him to his feet, not responding to the broken king's words. Tears spilled down her eyes, and not a word was spoken between the two.

Supporting him, they moved towards the stone door, she helping him hold the jewel up to the door. It groaned open, revealing a room of ash, of granite, of a throne befitting a king lost in this rebirth. And as she eased the decayed man onto the throne, the man she had grown to love, the man who had finally ended this hell, he reached up to his chest, gripping the feather from the folds in his armor.

He held it between them, she gripping his hand, smiling underneath her tears. Smiling back, the old, broken king, the monarch no better than the ones before him, the man who was crushed under the weight of a monarch's fate, the man who found the strength to carry the souls of those he cared for, spoke his last words.

_"My reason... is fulfilled."_

* * *

><p>There was once a woman of tormented grey.<p>

Brown hair, brown eyes, white disposition. Grey soul. A woman who aided a man of white, who saw him rise and fall, who saw him understand what it meant to be a monarch. Who saw him gain the strength to carry the weight of his souls.

She aided him through the four great beings. She aided him through the monument to old, forgotten Drangleic. To the shell of a king, she aided him. Through a being of grey, through a lord of stone she aided him. To his fate she aided him. And all this time, he fought, relentlessly, perpetually. So that no other would feel this curse of want. So that this promise would be fulfilled. His reason. The thing he coveted above all else. What she now understood.

She stood outside the stone door, sliding closed, never taking her gaze off the old, broken king. The man who had given her hope. The man who had ended her journey. The man by the name of Avezrix.

She had once been a woman of black. A thoughtful, saddened woman, one who had only known the curse her entire life.

She had once been a woman of tormented grey, one who guided the man of white, one who understood freedom. One who felt hope.

After so long, as the broken king faded into the darkness behind the closed doors, as the cycle began anew, she was no longer a woman of tormented grey. She was a woman of relief, of remembrance, of care, of hope.

She was a woman of white. Brown hair. Brown eyes. White disposition.

A white soul.


	6. Chapter 6

_A Monarch No Better_

_He Who Watches, From the Consuming River_

There was once a being indescribable.

Hair a distant memory. Eyes smoldering and scorched. A disposition closed off and buried under cruel invincibility. A soul plagued by the guilt afforded a survivor.

He sifted in the nothingness, watching the world pass by, the sun rise and fall, his own world hidden from light and darkness. He fashioned his mangled body in memory of what he once was. A head of gray, smooth hair. A face sunken and forlorn, yet glowing with wisdom. A frail body, one afforded to a scholar.

The essence of eternity, of inevitability, burning wood, painted a cruel perversion of that image. A mouth of jagged branches, sifting with fire and the cold. Skin strong as steel, and just as heavy. A mind rotting with anger and regret.

He saw sacrifice in those he watched. The undead trudged along on their quest, shackled by fate, by a sinner's mistake.

His brother one of them. A king. A monarch. Had only he known, his brother could have ended the cycle. Instead he became it's prime victim. The being would watch as those he loved stayed in the cycle, far from his grasp, far from hope.

Until there came a man of white.

The being watched this one as well. As the man of white corroded, his memories rose of what he had been in his final days. Crestfallen. Desperate. Angry. Determined.

The man of black found his brother, a magnificent monarch with a hollow soul and an despairing ring, and recalled his brother in his youth. A prankster at first, a warrior next, a man endowed with wisdom, then a king besieged by regret.

The man of black took the jewel of the old lord of stone, and sat with the man broken by his soul of nothingness. Watched the sun, instinctively grasping the fold in his armor where the feather lay.

The man of black ended a being of black, and sat on the throne with the aid of Shanalotte. His old creation, a woman unnatural and built to crush fate. A failure.

And yet, the being thought, a success as well.

The being indescribable thought back on every undead he had ever watched, from the cruelty of freedom. Pawns, monarchs too weak, monarchs no better. And yet, there was a chance.

After so long, the being felt something he had not remembered since he lived in the cycle. Something cruel, something that had crushed him in that cycle and abandoned him on the outside, the everlasting river of nothingness.

Hope.

That feeling rushed from that mangled body of burning wood, through his soul, from his veins of chaotic flame, to his mouth beset by cold and remorse, into the mind of the broken king, as a single whisper, the flicker of a candle's flame, a single opposing caress on a river immovable. A single sentence.

_Fate can be beaten._

And the throne's doors, ever so slightly, slid open.


End file.
